


Valhalla

by theoreticalpixy



Category: Thor (Comics)
Genre: Afterlife fic, Drabble, F/M, Future Fic, death but not in a traumatizing way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:01:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoreticalpixy/pseuds/theoreticalpixy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death is not the same for their people. In the honored hall she waits for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Valhalla

She takes no lovers.

Hall of heroes and feasting, this blessed place where they live in their death and the Lady Sif always sleeps alone.

She is neither the first nor the last to choose such in these halls, but it is still rare in a way. The echoes of ‘my queen’ from those younger dead only highlight. None would care if she did, husband or no it does not matter here. Not while one is in realm of living and other is dead.

She was always meant to conduct court in these halls, she has known that from young age. She has never been fool to deny she would one day end up in these halls. It is peace in a way, to finally lay down in Valhalla.

Tales are told night after night and she raises toasts and they shout and cheer and she laughs as songs begin. She is loved here, their Goddess of War and Hunt, shield maiden and leader, their Queen. His Queen.

And so the weeks turn to years in the hall eternal and Sif passes her days happily, trading tales and enjoying the revelry. She spends a week straight listening to the tales of her father, long dead since she was but a sprig of a child. She welcomes each new friend who passes, fills their cup and stays up drinking with them through their first night. She meets those who died at her command and they bow to her. She always bows in return.

She is happy, she is loved, but there is still one soul missing.

It is an honor; she is proud to know he still reigns. To know their sons and daughters and grandchildren still fight. She embraces each of her line who enters the hall. They tell her news and she kisses their foreheads. Sons and daughters of strength and glory and honor. Of heart and soul and hope. They trickle in and Sif holds them close, sad and happy all at once to have them here with her.

It means another to hold, to care for and rejoice with.

It means he has less of them with which to do the same.

The years press on.

Finally on one dour night the men sing old hymns. Battles rage and they can feel the shifting universe around them. They sing slow ancient songs. Of battle, of glory, of mourning and death. There’s a tang of storms upon the air. Sif knows it too well.

She retires to her chambers early. Lays down with heavy head and covers herself in furs and blankets. Things are changing. She can feel it deep in her bones and in the beat of her heart. It tires her.

She does not rouse when the shouts and songs get louder. Nor as the cheers boom and the welcoming of great heroes can be heard all through the hall. Sif sleeps. Sleeps until the quiet opening of door some hours later. She shifts, brow flicking tight against the firelight as it opens. Her body knows this is no threat. None in his foot steps, none in the way his weight settles on the bed.

A hand touches her cheek and she leans into the touch.

“My Lady.”

It is relief to hear his voice again after so long. She hesitates none to reach for her love, “My Lord.”

Lips met and they need no more words.


End file.
